f
Edward Rossel, to the great surprise and amusement of all his friends.
For our Fat Rossel was known as an incorrigible and fanatical despiser
of country life, who was never tired of ridiculing the passion of the
Munichers for going into the mountains for refreshment in summer, and
who preferred, even in the hottest weather, when none of his friends
could hold out in the city any longer, to do without society altogether
rather than to give up the comforts of his city home even for a few
weeks.

He maintained that this sentimental staring at a mountain or woodland
landscape, this going into ecstasies over a green meadow or a bleak
snow-field, this adoration of the rosy tints of sunrise and sunset, and
all the other species of modern nature-worship, were nothing more or
less than a disguised form of commonplace, thoughtless indolence, and
as such certainly not to be condemned, particularly by so zealous a
defender of _dolce far niente_ as himself. But they must not suppose
that this particular form of idleness was the highest and worthiest of
human conditions; at the best the benefit which the mind and soul
derived from it was not greater than if one should look over a book of
pictures, or listen for hours to dance-music. Let them drivel as much
as they liked about the sublimity, beauty, and poetry of Nature, she is
and remains merely the scenery, and the stage of this world first
begins to repay the price of admission when human figures make their
appearance upon it. He did not envy the simplicity of a man who would
be willing to sit in the parquet all the evening, staring at the empty
scene, studying the woodland or mountain decorations, and listening to
the voice of the orchestra.

To this the enthusiastic admirers of Nature always responded: It was
well known that his ill-will toward Nature arose from the fact that no
provision had been made for a comfortable sofa and a French cook at all
the beautiful spots. He never made the slightest attempt to defend
himself against these hits, but, on the contrary, he maintained in all
seriousness, and with much ingenuity, his argument that a thinking
being could derive more enjoyment of Nature, and a deeper insight into
the greatness and splendor of the creation, from a _pate de foie gras_
than from watching a sunrise on the Rigi, with sleepy eyes, empty
stomach, and half-frozen limbs enveloped in a ridiculous blanket--a
melancholy victim, like his neighbors, to Alpine insani